Alex's Tears
by Brown hair and eyes
Summary: Alex's thoughts while imprisoned on a mission and after-effects.
1. Chapter 1

Alex's Tears

There are many types of tears; I know them all.

The thick pure, almost condensed tears of rage.

The acute watering of the eyes that comes with white hot rage.

The sharp pinpricks of fear.

I can just remember the warm full tears that refresh the soul, that come from innocent joy and laughter.

Days of innocent, happy bliss with Jack and Ian...

But they are just a faint memory, echoes of a half recalled dream separated from my mind by twin barriers of time and bleak, harsh reality.

They are dead. I am not... yet.

The tears I know most intimately are the silent tears of shame.

Silent because I still have some pride left in my battered bruised body. When you have nothing left you cling to what little you have.

But also silent because if THEY hear, if they even know that I was crying it would be interpreted as weakness, or worse, resistance.

I could take the consequences, I think, but the others, the children they kidnapped along with me...

No, I will not inflict that on them. Even if they hate me and believe the worst, I won't betray them.

But one day I will not cry privately.

I will cry openly with pride, and scream and curse them and not care about the future or of _consequences_. And fight without caring until the end.

And they will be beautiful tears.

Of revenge, of justice. They are the same thing to me now. The barriers between black and white smeared into a grey mess inside my head. I try to tell myself that I did it for the best, that I'm not a monster. I know I'm lying to myself.

I will wait here in the dark and the cold and endure the pain and the evil things that pry in the night.

I will cling onto sanity with all my strength one more day, one more hour when I can so easily let go and fall into the forgiving embrace of madness.

I lost hope of escape after a few weeks. The hope of rescue was ripped from me a few months later. Then hope itself was stolen from me.

But I will wait: I will endure.

For those beautiful tears.


	2. Chapter 2

Alex's Tears 2  
AN: I'm not as happy with this, response appreciated.

Darkness is a spy's acquaintance, never a friend. It conceals movement, deafens noise, protects from observation. It also disguises illusion, a factor Alex hadn't truly appreciated before now; it his his grimy surroundings or gaping wounds from sight making it easier to resist or ignore them (with the latter becoming more common as the days sapped his strength).

At one point Alex had, like most young children, had a fear of the dark – of what it could contain. Ian had dealt with by spending days teaching Alex the tell-tale shadows and noises that show if someone or something is really there. He also, when the house was swathed in darkness, showed Alex how to improve and keep his night-vision.

Funny how his relationship with the dark changes: at first scared of it (a basic instinct programmed into the body), then scared of what it might contain, then scared of what he knows it contains (faces swimming past him – assassins, spies, bodies of those he once knew). Until he gave up any hope for rescue, Alex was terrified of what the dark didn't contain, that he would never find a way out.

But now as he listens to the kidnapped children's voices and the emotions contained in them (not the words, never the words since the first month, words are easily twisted - voices less so) and feels the blood drip out of his body he is glad for the darkness. It is concealing the hopeless situation from the children and more importantly the twist of wire he managed to palm during the last session, Alex's anchor to sanity. It is deafening the spasms of pain that every careful movement of his broken hands causes. It is protecting his dignity and what little pride he has left.

So when the time comes and Alex knows it will - for his stay has taught him patience - his captors won't see their deaths coming. And until then Alex won't acknowledge his death approaching as beautiful tears run down his face and meet the smile of vengeance on his face.


	3. Chapter 3 -A Doctor's impression

A Doctor's impression (or Old eyes)  
AN: Again, slightly different and written in post migraine stupor. Feedback wanted, please!

The boy was old; he was just waiting for his body to realize it and catch up.  
His movements were careful, each action economical as possible performed with such precision because it hurt to move so he did it as efficiently as possible. Lethal precision.  
When he stretched his breath became a little too controlled – if I hadn't be trained to look for such signs I would never have noticed – he was controlling the shortness of breath caused by the spasms of pain that racking his body.

His recovery was steady but lacked the... enthusiasm he had displayed in his first (of _many_) visits to Dom's. Something during his latest escapades had broken something inside him, not just the superficial injuries of broken bones and the like. The strange apathy reminded me of my great uncles' stories of soldiers who pleaded not to go back to the field were they would be forced to face the horrors of war once more.

I pause and look more closely at the adolescent who cannot be, it clear conscience, be called a child (a child would never had to endure such injuries). He's performing well at the moment: playing the restless teen yearning to be released from the confining hospital for the benefit of his friend. But this performance is what it is; only an act.

I've seen his face when he was too tired to keep up any façade, seen the ancient eyes of a warrior, a soldier, a … I can't bare to think of it, dare to believe that the mighty have fallen so far to resort to this injustice. But the way the name of his employers is wrapped in secrecy combined with his scared body tell the grisly, unpalatable truth.

As I watch him interact with his friend, his only friend (I noticed that as well during his stays - was isolation a move one his part or a forced decision) I find myself wondering how many people's lives has this old-eyed manling ended, how much blood is on this unofficial government sanctioned assassin's hands or whatever title they've bestowed on him. Then I shake myself; it is not my place to judge because I have never been forced into combat, seen what those eyes have seen, I don't know the full story.

But I do know the number of times the nurses have pleaded to give the poor boy sedatives as he writhes in the grip of some terrible nightmare and I have to refuse as I am bound by the strict instructions his employers give for their _weapon_. I know that his actions have their own punishment and I know it worse that any sentence the courts may give.

So I help him any way I can: dispensing the small amount of painkillers he is allowed often, allowing him visitors much earlier than I normally would to distract him, I try to pull him from the grim apathy that occasionally overwhelms him and give him as much privacy as I can when tears run down his face. I learned to value the brief moments of happiness or amusement that he enjoys and I try to accept his eyes as those of a veteran who despite everything hasn't quite given up.

I learned to care for him, my patient, the child spy.

And because I care for him I will never mention the awful day when the grim-faced soldiers called me to treat him; when his whole body was bloody, tears streamed down his face, a twist of gore covered wire clenched in his hand. When there was no intelligence in those blue eyes, just feral instinct, I sent the nurses and the guards away and spent the better part of 6 hours talking his sanity down from his mental cliff. Glad of the little psychology I had been taught I used slow movements to avoid alarming him or make him categorize me as a threat, my constant murmuring helped him keep track of my position as well as being a constant link to the real world. How I managed to take his makeshift weapon out of his hands and get him into his bed I'll never know. But when he broke and shattered, when I held his hand giving vital human contact, I felt I had paid back a small portion of what our county owed him.

But I hope I'll never see eyes that old again.


	4. Chapter 4

Alex's Tears chapter 4  
An: Sorry this took awhile but I find this one a little difficult to write. Thanks for all who have reviewed! Enjoy.

He stared at mirror and saw a killer.  
Not that the mirror would tell.

He tried again.

He looked at the mirror and saw crook, a fugitive, not running from the law but from justice of his own conscience, running from the blood on his hands.  
(Not that ever got to read Macbeth with the rest of his classmates).

No, he shook his head.

He gazed at the mirror at the virtual image, an impeccable fake of an normal teenage boy who didn't really exist.  
(Or that's what the physics lessons he never got to attend didn't tell him).

He blinked. He tried to see what others saw.

He admired the mirror and contemplated the attractive lie it told.  
A teenage boy, blond hair slightly disheveled suggesting a roguish, popular character never lacking friends or easy companionship.  
A slightly too low tie knot implies that he is stylish but not rebellious.  
An winning smile suggests he has a bright future full of opportunities ahead of him.  
He avoids looking into his own eyes, knowing he will recognize his _true_ nature hiding inside.

The scars: carefully hidden by long sleeves and a little of Smither's special cover-up that he quietly gave to Alex after he got out the hospital after the kid-

No! He told himself as the mirror's image started to blur, the façade of that happy young man breaking up. Don't think about that blood covered, gore filled, pain saturated time. Don't recall the way you were lost in the darkness and for the first time truly gave up. Don't call to mind those nightmares that are all to ready to attack and tear your mind apart. Don't.

But it's too late.

Alex leaves the room not the schoolboy he wishes to be, but the hopeless druggie his peers paint him as.

He doesn't see the reflection in the mirror that tells the truth; a soldier at his breaking point, deserted by his allies, failed by his superiors, covered with not the gallons of blood he envisage but by the regrets and mistakes of others, his face shining with beautiful tears.

But they aren't beautiful, not really.  
He won't ever heal completely, not really.  
He isn't a murderer, not really.  
He isn't a tool forged in battle, not really.  
His life isn't over, not really.

He's a human being, not a monster – but only just.

(He wonders how long in will be before he relishes taking a life. He doesn't like this own answer. Not long.)


	5. Chapter 5

Alex's Tears Chapter 5: Truth from the hostage.  
AN: Sorry for the long wait, I'm only writing this one when inspired. Not completely happy with this - so please review. Like always, thanks for reading.

The psychologist sighed as she listened to the boys recorded statement again. Once he was rescued the eldest of the hostage children had been _very uncooperative;_ in fact he walked out of her sessions and refused to come back. Worse the boy's mother, a multimillionaire supported him in this. She had no choice but to let him go – it wasn't like this mother could afford her son's medical fees. But it would make dealing with her main patient so much more difficult without the bystanders information. She sighed again as she tried to pull her thoughts together and stop procrastinating. She turned on the video.

The teens face that had been staring at her with the serious eyes that all the hostages gained started talking, his voice low and grim.

"It changed my life those few days in the dark. The never ending, full of creatures and noises and monsters and darkness." He laughed humour absent from his voice – PTSD for certain she thought.

"It was hell, but in a way its showed me the truth. It stripped my illusions away, stripped my ego and my hopes down until it was just my mind and the darkness and _them._ The captors. The ones that left us alone in the dark for days until they opened the door and light spilled in and they took him."

Interesting, she thought, the captors usually would have kept them separated, after all, Rider wasn't there for ransom, from what (little) briefing she had been given she was surprised that they had made any connection with Rider at all. He had refused to attend her sessions after the disastrous attempt at group therapy. His employer insisting hadn't changed a thing, in fact, she suspected, it made the problem worse.

"The terrible thing was, at the time, we didn't notice he was gone for at least an hour. We were being stupid, and hopeful about the light, and selfishly remembering how good the light was, we didn't think to check if anyone was missing or what they had wanted. We were all so stupid.

An _Hour_ to notice one person was missing in a single room! He hadn't talked much, just warned us to be careful and not do anything to annoying the captors. We all ignored him at the time, as if he had any right to tell us what to do.  
It was only later that we realised that, yes, he did."

One of the only useful pieces of information she had gained from the sessions was the way the other kids looked up to the blond teen and that the older children always placed themselves and the younger kids. The the blond ignored them (if she was a better observer she might have saw that he checked their positions constantly that his bored gaze tracked their direction – that the spy did care). She thought that they respect Rider because of what he wet through (she was wrong they trusted him because of what he did for them in those dark days). One the younger girls claimed before her brother shushed her that it was because "he looked after us". She discounted this, it was only a kid.

"They took him. I'll never be able to forgive myself for not noticing that he had been hurt by _them_. Hurt bad." The boy on the recording took a deep shaky breath as Psychologist watched he was obviously remembering a traumatic time.

"I changed in that place underground, my priorities, my opinions, my attitude. Even people who weren't especially close to me have noticed and commented on it. I have heard the rumours that I went insane in the dark, that it messed with my head and that's why I don't enjoy life so much and why I don't join in with my friends messing around. I disagree. I think I simply grow up and grew old in a few days."

"I was the one in the small group who tried to help him in the dark. Who tried to make sure he ate and drank some of what was given to us, who tried to clean his wounds, who tried to talk with him. He was being tortured. What for I couldn't guess but it was important. Because otherwise he would have told them before they broke both his hands to avoid the agony that every movement caused him. And I know he cared about us, the rest of the kids so he tried to hide it, to not show weakness. Because when we were taken he fought like a demon taking several of them down but when they pulled the gun and held it against one of the little kids heads he stopped immediately.

We owe him for what he did there. But I will never be the same. Because I can't trust that around the corner that _they_ won't be there, that another friend won't betray me and end up hurting me.

It took weeks in the dark to stop us believe that someone – anyone - was coming for us, that the nightmare could end. In the end it was him that got us out not the police not the army not the government.I _can't _trust them again and to be honest I don't want to. So no, I don't wish to talk about my feelings to you. I'm sorry but you don't understand" the boy shook his head "I can't help you." The recording finished and the psychologist sat there drained staring at the screen.

Maybe she should just leave trying to help Rider to tomorrow. Or maybe she should do the right thing and turn around to her employers and tell them the truth.

"I can't help you."


	6. Chapter 6

Alex's Tears Chapter 6_  
AN: I've posted! This fic is switch point of view from beggar girl to Alex. At the end I was try to show the conflict between Alex and MissionAlex; do you like, dislike, want to roast it on a fire? Hope you enjoy and please review!_

He wasn't panicking with the bullets flying all around, the sun blazing and blood soaking into the sand. So she didn't. Either she would live or... she wouldn't (she might get to see her brother again). Panicking wouldn't stop any size caliber. Screaming hysterically (like some small part of her wanted to) would defiantly attract gunfire. So she stayed silent. Even when the pain began.

He was glad she had died. Jack wouldn't wanted to see how low he'd sunk, he realised. That he stood by and let someone be killed in front of him, and not done a thing to prevent it.(Was this what Ash felt like, why he gave in and gave his parents up?)

It was on one of the latest missions deep inside some foreign country. (They refused to tell him which one instead only briefing him on the location of the base, the languages spoken and where to deliver to material to. He would have been amused that they thought he could blackmail _them_ but this was the third such mission in two days.) He had been tired, so tired and had made mistakes. (But what could they expect of someone with bruised ribs, a head aching from dehydration and a severe longing to just _stop?_)

He had sprinted into the alley way, not realising that it was a dead-end filled with rubbish heaps, not realising there was no way out. (Not realising that the beggar was even there, and he would regret that night after night). He dived behind on of the heaps, praying that they had missed him, even as he started around and realised his mistakes when the he saw tall walls surrounded him and a pair of shy brown eyes meeting his.

_He was so surprised when he saw her, he hadn't noticed her at all. Well, that wasn't unusual. What was there to notice? Another child of the streets? A worthless girl? She lived on the edges and no-one knew she was there. Or if she wasn't. He put a finger to his lips, a unspoken plea in his eyes, she obeyed. Why not?_

A couple of the guards entered the alley unsure if Alex was even there. It could have just ended there, Alex realised bitterly, they could have just turned away and walked off and he would have had one less nightmare at night.

_A sudden sound cracked the silence; a rustle of a rat in one of the heaps. She knew there was a nest in there and hated it. (Her brother had been... found by the rats.) A man shouted and gunfire rent the air sending rubbish flying and rats scurrying for cover._

The beggar was so calm under the layers of grime and dust. Alex watched as one of the rounds painted blood on their chest. But they didn't scream, didn't make a sound that could be heard of the sound of gunfire. They didn't condemn him to death as well by making a sound. And he felt guilty for not feeling more thankful.

_Something punched her in the chest. It hurt. Her curious fingers felt wet when they touched the crimson flower. But she felt distant from it, almost warm. It was hard to get warm sometimes at night. She was drifting. She could feel the boy's eyes on her, concern on his face. That was nice. Someone cared. She couldn't remember when someone last cared..._

He could have applied pressure (but to reach her he would have needed to enter the men's line of sight), he could gotten help (but who would have helped a beggar when there were men with guns nearby) he could have done something, anything instead of just watching her die (he did what he had to, he completed the mission). The eyes accused him in his nightmares (but they were so calm until they slide closed). It was his fault (so what? Only a singer causality on a mission – except for the guards- that's a _success_.)

_She didn't scream. She did as he asked. It was hard to breath, why? She hoped the men wouldn't get him, he cared. She was cared for. That was important, she thought fuzzily, that somebody cared for you..._

Even in his nightmares, she didn't speak, didn't panic, didn't scream. She just said everything with her eyes instead. She was dead because of him. He wonders if it was worth it.  
(But the mission succeeded.)  
The mission succeeded.


End file.
